Back in 1996 I spent the year studying in Israel. Come Lag BaOmer, the anniversary of the passing of Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai, author of the Zohar, we travelled from our Yeshiva in Kfar Chabad to his resting place in Meron.
The trip took about three hours and we arrived at 2:00a.m. We were certainly not the only ones there! Close to 500,000 Jews travel to Meron every Lag BaOmer—mostly from around Israel itself but some even fly in from other countries.
For safety reasons, we had to park several miles away and walk to his resting place. Along the way we passed thousands of other Jews from all walks of life. People danced and sang in the streets—it could just as easily have been 2:00 in the afternoon!
I saw Chassidic Jews and Litvish Jews. I saw Israelis and Americans and Australians. I saw chareidim, modern orthodox and completely unaffiliated Jews. There were people who voted for Shas, and people who voted for Likkud; people who support Shinui, and people extremely right wing. But secular or religious, unaffiliated or traditional, we all shared a common purpose and a sense of intense unity—to celebrate and bask in the joy of this holy day.
What a sight, as we walked up the mountain! The singing got louder and the dancing more animated. The crowds thickened and it became harder to pass. People literally dance right through the night, and getting to Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai’s actual gravesite requires endless patience and top-notch navigation. The sheer mass of bodies trying to get into the small space takes a toll. After two hours of pushing and standing my ground, I finally managed to reach the actual gravesite and say my prayer.
And as I stood there, I felt myself—and my prayers—being uplifted by the tremendous power and energy around me. Praying surrounded by 500,000 of my brethren was truly inspiring. Despite our differences, we were all there at the same time, for the same reason. Unity pulsated through the crowd; the feeling truly indescribable.
In that moment—actually, in that entire 24 hours—something monumental happened. There we were, half a million Jews from all walks of life, and suddenly our differences melted away. It stopped mattering which political parties we supported, which synagogues we attended, and which communities we came from. At that moment, we were simply Jews. Brothers. One nation, together. Nothing else mattered, except for our shared heritage and G-dly souls. No matter how different we may appear, we are a single unit.
I spent five Lag BaOmers in Meron, and I was privileged to experience this same tremendous feeling each time.
This year, Lag BaOmer falls out on Sunday, April 28. We may not be in Meron, but we can still celebrate together. We can still focus on our commonalities and try to set aside our differences for the day. Are we individuals with individual opinions? Absolutely! But ultimately, we are brothers and sisters. Part of something much bigger and greater—the Jewish nation.
By focusing on our commonalities, we can override and solve our differences. Do we differ over the Israeli army? Sure. Do we differ about secular subjects being taught in schools? Yes. Must these differences divide us so sharply? Absolutely not!
On Lag BaOmer, when we light bonfires and dance with abandon, let’s also rekindle the fire in our souls, and recognize that ultimately we are all the same; all one nation. Let’s embrace it.